The Muse - The Blog of Author David W. Berner

An Experiment?

2011-12-05T17:34:00.001-08:00

It's been a good autumn.

I'm in the process of wrapping up another semester of teaching at Columbia College Chicago, finishing up some freelance writing assignments, and working on some new material for a considered Kindle publication, a possible ebook adventure, if you will. The stories will be a mixture of fiction and creative nonfiction. An editor is working through the stories and I'm cleaning up some of the material, some of it needs more cleaning than others.

The working title is After Opium, the title of one of the pieces. The theme is about all those many things that we feel we need, are addicted to, and believe we can't live without - when in reality, we can live without most of it. It's just a matter of deciding to carry on, move on, change, accept heartache, loss or a new beginning.

This venture into e-publishing is really an academic experiment. I want to see what self-publishing through the ebook experience is really like. I hope to have something available sometime in the early part of 2012. Good way to start the New Year, huh? We'll see.

Here are a few of the pieces - at least early versions of them - that will likely be included in the e-collection. Each has been published, but reworked, newer versions - some only slightly changed - will likely make it into After Opium (the collection).

Hope you enjoy.

Epiphany Magazine - "Over the Edge and Into the Wind"

Epiphany Magazine - "The Smell of Dead Soldiers"

Character-i - "After Opium"

This Much is True

2011-09-09T05:07:00.001-07:00

After being immersed in writing while at the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando this summer, it's been tough getting back into the swing of things - the writing swing - here in the Chicago area. Not that I don't want to write - I certainly do and have, to some extent - but the routine is off. And that makes be wonder about how writers - of all kinds - get themselves back in the groove after a change in their usual or planned writing routine?

It's not that easy, is it?

Writing is work, and it takes time and thought, introspection and consideration, and many times what is needed it a difficult commodity to cultivate - quiet. Those who don't write sometimes don't get this. Even our loved ones don't always understand the process. How could they if they don't also write?

So, I'm wondering today - what do you do? What do you do to get your writing swagger back after a break, a respite? How do you jump start the process? Or do you? Maybe you slog back into it like I'm currently doing. Or maybe you are atypical and simply never fall off the writing track? You lucky devil, you.

I have one thing that may help. This coming Tuesday night in Chicago I'll be reading at the This Much is True event at the Hopleaf Bar, 5148 North Clark. TMIT is a marvelous addition to the storytelling circuit in Chicago and really is a kick to experience. Come on out and help me get my writing juices flowing again! It might also electrify your writing, too.

Best,

David

Scribbler's Retreat - A Great Experience

2011-08-15T10:01:00.001-07:00

Thanks to all who turned out for the Scribbler's Retreat and Conference at the Sea Island Lodge on St. Simons, Georgia. What a great group and a well-run writing conference!

I was fortunate enough to be asked to give the keynote address Saturday evening, and was thrilled by the response and enthusiasm of this group of writers. A speaker certainly can thrive off of that! And great questions, by the way.

Scribbler's does a number of conference at year, and it is truly a good experience for all levels of writers. And these people are FUN! I know this sounds a bit like a commercial - but honestly - it is one of the better writing conference experiences.

Back from JK House and trying to find a new pattern for writing here in the Chicago area again. A road trip of 1285 miles from Orlando through Georgia and South Carolina and Asheville, North Carolina (stunning beauty) and the Smokey Mountains and Tennessee and Ohio and Indiana and Illinois. It is a little tricky getting the groove going again, but I've got some ideas and some energy...so...off I go...

Best,

David

-30-

2011-08-12T06:02:00.000-07:00

I sat in Jack's room this morning, my last minutes in the Kerouac House.

There on the bed, and then at the desk, I thought about my 2-and-a-half months here. Not about every minute, every breakthrough in writing, or friend made, or visits to the Essay Club, or my readings at Infusion or inside this house, or the workshop with MadAboutWords, or my final weeks of writing inspired by the Downtown Credo coffee shop, or my book manuscript. Instead, I thought about the energy in that room, how I wanted to bottle it, to wrap it up in a sealed plastic bag and put it on ice to thaw whenever I need it.

I left behind my Zen bracelet I once wore, wrapping it around the small Buddha shrine in Jack's room. I wanted to leave something behind, more than just the memory of a writer who once worked here.

My last week was a good one despite the AC dying at the house on the next to last day. But somehow it was fitting. When Jack lived here, there was no air conditioning, so he wrote at night when it was cool, his keys echoing out the open window and bouncing off the trees and homes on this usually quiet street. Neighbors said they could hear the furious typing until dawn.

To all those who supported me - thank you. To all the writers before me - thank you. To the writer's to come - savor the work, and breath every bit of the omnipresent energy. I promise I left a little behind.

Best,

David

Now That Was Cool

2011-08-07T08:19:00.001-07:00

Sometimes nights are pleasant; sometimes nights are memorable. Sometimes - they are undeniably seared into the landscape of your future.

That's what the night was at the Jack Kerouac House - a searing, unforgettable launching.

It was my goodbye reading at the JK House Saturday night. About twenty-five people on hand. Wine, cheese, cut apples, green grapes, sweets made of caramel. And a supportive, encouraging, responsive crowd.

I read a few short pieces I had written here, or edited here, and then a chapter from my new book-length manuscript. I tried to hit a lot of notes, strike some relevance. I pray I accomplished that. Think I did.

But, about this "landscape of the your future" of which I speak.

Performing at readings is not writing. It is just that, performing. There's a rhythm you have to recognize, a pulse you have to take, so that you offer what you think you must and allow it to be received through the windows of what your audience wants. It's tough work. I don't always get it right. Even when I do, I'm doubtful that it is as good as it can be. But what I am sure of from the reading the JK House Saturday, is that the stories told and the questions asked and the hearts and souls touched (including mine) were all very real. And with that, I go forward. I move ahead, take what the night gave me, and write more, create more, find new themes, discover more inquiries, and deliver more stories. Writers always need places, good places from which to jump. Saturday night I leapt from the steps of the Jack Kerouac House with wings.

Thanks to all.

I will soon relinquish the chair that sits at the desk in the small room where Jack wrote The Dharma Bums to the next writer, the next lucky soul who will also find a nuturting venue, a supportive cast, and a place from which to jump.

Best,

David

One More Week

2011-08-05T11:24:00.000-07:00

The countdown has begun.

I have one more week left - to the day - here at the JK House. And as all goodbyes go, there's a some sadness. Made new friends here, and I've come to really love this area. (Yeah, it's been hot, but you somehow get used to it.)

Of course, I've completed a good deal of work here, or at least as completed as writing can be. I forget who it was, but an author once said something like this: a writer is never done with a story, he only abandons it. I know exactly what he meant.

Saturday night is my final reading at the Kerouac House, and I'm looking forward to the chance to share pieces of the book manuscript and some short fiction I written here, all inspired - to some extent - by the area, the house, the local people, the shops.

Next weekend, I head for Sea Island, Georgia for a conference - The Scribbler's Retreat. I've been honored to talk about radio narrative, creative nonfiction, and interviewing as the conference's keynote speaker. Never been to Sea Island, and friends tell me it is storybook beautiful.

I can't say I'm looking forward to the 1200 mile drive back to Chicago, but how fitting, right? It prolongs the Kerouac connection when one has to get behind the wheel and drive and drive.

David

And Now, a Bit of Fiction

2011-08-03T09:25:00.000-07:00

Most my writing here at the JK House has been creative nonfiction, working on a book manuscript for a road trip story.

But, in the last week or so I've taken a break, and been working on some short fiction. I try to write something every morning at around the 600-1000 word length. I love short fiction. The shorter the better sometimes. I think of Cat in the Rain, Hemingway's great short story measuring out at just about 1000 words. (Not to say I'm Ernest, but I am earnest. Sorry, that is a really bad pun.)

So with all this said...here's a taste of some short fiction....

Barre Work

By David W. Berner

She was a ballerina. Actually, she was a budding ballerina. That’s what they call the young ones who visualize starring in Giselle or Swan Lake, but whose talent is not yet refined, their technique not yet precise. Still, even at the age of 15, she walked with her feet already severely pointing outward. Her turnout, as it’s called, was well beyond her young life. She dreamed of living in New York City. I dreamed of being her lover.

She attended ballet classes twice a week on Wednesday afternoons after school and again on Saturday mornings. She always arrived early to do extra barre work. Once, I came along and watched. She progressed through a series of beautifully graceful movements: the demi plie, the full plie, the grande battement front. Her body squatting nearly to the floor, her back straight, and the lights in the room casting delicate shadows on her sinewy tendons and muscles. With each move, she sculpted herself into a new work of art.

“Ballet is a dance executed by the human soul,” Alexander Pushkin, the Russian poet, was believed to have said. I was a freshman in high school; I didn’t know anything at all about Pushkin. But if I had heard someone quote the poet as I saw her move through the elegant routine, I would have agreed. I witnessed her soul at work that day. Something I believed I had glimpsed in the moments we spent alone. The dance was different, but fueled by the same spirit. Some might say I was too young, too naive to recognize this, but I know what I saw.

The lesson focused primarily on perfection of the brise, a sharp movement that throws the working leg into the air while pushing off from the supporting leg. The dancer lands on crossed feet, knees bent. Standing in 5^th position, she briskly jumped, beating one leg against the other in midair. Even in its quickness, the movement remained elegant, like that of a jaguar – powerful and graceful. To reveal her beauty the cat needs to do nothing more than move its body, to allow the working muscles to expose its magnificence. She needed no partner. Like the cat, she was a singular being focused solely on where her body was, would be, and how she would get it there. She was keenly aware of herself, yet moved only by instinct, as if in a dream. Her eyes gave away nothing. No one could breakthrough the intensity, the dancer’s wall. She would not let them.

It was no different with us. I wanted to get closer to her somehow, climb over the wall, but she would only let me scale it enough to see through the tiny cracks. Her parents had insisted she see other people, they told her she was too young to be so serious with one boy. “I’m don’t know what to do,” she said, “I have to listen to my parents, but I can’t imagine what things will be like.”

To dance is to sacrifice. The body is contorted into what the art needs. To be who she became required all of her. It is also true of love. We give up pieces of ourselves, transform to meet the requests of our lovers, shape our souls into what is desired. To be in love, to experience it, requires all we have.

After her lesson, after the barre work and the final brise, I told her I wouldn’t be coming to any more of her ballet lessons. She kissed me. “Promise you’ll get to New York to see me one day,” she said. “Promise me you won’t forget.”

______________________________________________

And so it goes...

David

I Have Waited Too Long to Credo

2011-07-29T17:09:00.000-07:00

It was just a couple weeks ago here in Orlando at the Jack Kerouac House that I first entered Credo, the College Park coffee house. I'm sorry I waited so long.

Credo is a donations only coffeehouse with a funky and comfortable interior, and a "creed" to go along with it. To say it succinctly, Credo rejects apathy. The idea behind the this community shop is to give back to its neighbors, offering help to the local Boys and Girls Club, a space for songwriters and doucmentarians, artists and writers, people who want to live life to its fullest in a meaningful, purposeful way. And yes, there are no prices on the coffee, no prices of the coffee cakes. You pay what you think you should give.

Do not let this imply that the coffee is sub par. Credo is leading an initiative to pay the coffee growers in the La Perla region of Guatemala a living wage. The coffee is shade grown on rugged and remote hillsides. This was an area devastated by decades of civil war, but now produces what Credo calls "a treasure" - Cafe de la Esperanza. The hand-cultivated coffee is sun dried at 4,000 feet above sea level. It's a sweet, citric java. For me, it's best in a French press. But you can get it in as many ways as you can imagine at Credo.

I don't wish to create a blog that resembles an advertisement. It is not. But on Friday afternoon, I spent nearly six hours at Credo, writing, filling up my coffee mug, and savoring the surroundings the people. I simply want people to know how great this place is.

Like so much here, I will miss Credo. I will miss its unassuming purpose and its quietly welcoming space. With just two weeks left in my residency, Credo cretainly will be a part of many of my remaining hours.

David

Some Writers I've Been Considering

2011-07-29T08:19:00.000-07:00

These are not new names to many, but I've either been discovering or re-discovering their work while here at the Jack Kerouac House. And, I thought they were all worth sharing.

Authors (new and old) I've been paying attention to...

Denis Johnson

Simon Van Booy

ZZ Packer

Dinty Moore

Phillip Lopate

T.C. Boyle

David

Soft Exposure

2011-07-28T15:22:00.000-07:00

Great night at Infusion Tea for the latest edition of Soft Exposure!

I was honored to be part of a night that included friends and new friends, and readings from some talented writers. Although I read from my memoir, Accidental Lessons, and a bit from my new manuscript - the book I'm working on while the Writer-in-Residence at the Jack Kerouac Project, it was clear that poetry ruled the night. Some wonderful pieces on the themes of "waiting" and Jazz and monsters.

Tonight - I head out with the Essay Club. We've all read a recent NY Times piece by Jonathan Franzen about the links between technology, mobile device envy, and love. It should be a discussion of high volume. It always is

Two weeks remain for me at the JK House. I've already told the board members I'm planning an act of civil disobedience and chaining myself to the house's front porch. They'll have to call the cops.

In the meantime, I continue to redraft a manuscript and to write new material, hoping to shape some short fiction. But while I work, I can't help consider that these are my last hours here and there are levels of melancholy that envelope this temporary home and me. I've always believed there is some goodness in sadness. This is one of those times.

David

Cigars Galore

2011-07-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

There's a photo here at the Jack Kerouac House of Jack smoking a small cigar while going through his notebooks. In another photo, there's a box of Dutch Masters cigars in the background. They're tucked in a cubby hole near his writing desk.

So...

While at Jack's house...

Can't smoke in the JK home, but just minutes from the house is a great cigar shop - Corona Cigars. Fabulous. So, a one Cohiba and a McCallan single malt later - -

My younger son is visiting now too, and he smoked a small maduro.

Working on drafts of manuscript and also touching up some short pieces I've been tinkering with...hoping to publish them in a Kindle edition. More later.

David

Writers Getting a Little Help from Jack

2011-07-16T11:16:00.000-07:00

Ten writers came to the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando on Saturday to capture a little bit of the energy that emanates from this place. I hope they left with a bundle of it.

Along with the help of Mad-about-Words, I held a three-hour workshop at the JK House - mostly about how to organize your writing, your story plan, and crafting that crucial opening paragraph.

Writers of all skills, types, and sensitivities brought talent and dreams into the house, each dedicated to doing something special with their work. All offered great questions, solid insight, and some engaging opening paragraphs to the full stories yet to be told. From the tale of a middle-of-the-night phone call from a nearly forgotten lover, to an awkward - if not strange - encounter in a transgender bar, to a young woman's obsession with money and the big check she would be getting from her uncle whose mysterious death still haunted her - each writer dug deep to find a new way to begin a story, and sharing those stories was invaluable.

The JK House is a fabulous place to hold this kind of workshop - intimate, cozy, and full of creative force. But what makes it all work? The people. The writers who come to these workshops feed this house, nurturing it out of its slumber and routine. The JK House is always special even when it sits alone and quiet - but the beating hearts and the stories inside those hearts and souls are the fuel that keeps the house's artistic fires burning.

Best to all the writers here today - and joy in writing.

David B

On the Road - The Movie

2011-07-13T18:30:00.000-07:00

Some of you may already know that the On the Road movie is close to release. It's a Francis Ford Coppola-backed production.

The Huffington Post published a wonderful article about the "authenticity" behind the making of the movie.

Kerouac followers - you will LOVE THIS STORY!

4000 Miles in a Hudson

"All that raw land..."

David

One Month and NOT Counting

2011-07-13T17:02:00.000-07:00

I've been at the Kerouac House for over a month now, and have just about a month left - a little more than halfway.

Its bittersweet.

This is a marvelous place to work: great atmosphere, historical and spiritual in a way. The neighborhood is wonderful, and the friends I've made have been supportive and genuinely interested in my work.

In the next couple of weeks - plenty to do. This Saturday Mad-about-Words is holding a workshop for me here at the Kerouac House for writers interested in pursuing more ways to enlighten their work. I see that as a big responsibility and I take it seriously. I look forward to it. The house will be a wonderful place to hold the workshop, as it's homey and full of "writer energy."

Then later this month, I'll be at Infusion Tea for a reading with Soft Exposure. I was at the June reading where we listened to some wonderful local poets.

Then, in August I'll hold my final reading at the house during a farewell party here. That will will include a lot of "sweet" along with the aforementioned "bitter." (I've already told the Jack Kerouac Project: "I'm not leaving!)

Then it's off to Sea Island, Georgia for the Scribbler's Writer's Conference where I'll be the keynote speaker Saturday, August 13th.

Meantime - the work on the manuscript continues: lots of redrafting, chapter changes, and touch-ups, and - as Hemingway said - the search for that "one true sentence." But I see it coming together and I'm grateful to the JK Project for giving me the time and this remarkable place to make that happen.

Then comes the doubt. Writer's have doubt, don't you know? Who knew? But I'm ready for that, and the writer therapy I'll need when that thick manuscript sits on my desk -- waiting.

David

And One More Kerouac Hunter

2011-07-06T17:49:00.001-07:00

That's what they call them around here - Kerouac Hunters. These are the people who stop by the Jack Kerouac House here in Orlando unannounced and excited they have found the place where their favorite writer, their literary and cultural hero lived and wrote. The Hunters arrive regularly and today - there was yet another knock at my door.

A gentlemen from Alabama, traveling with his wife, came up the porch steps in mid-afternoon and stopped to look around. I could hear him talking to his wife.

"This is the place. There's a sign on the door. Wow. This is it."

He had heard about the house and its history - the apartment in the back, the small room - 10-x-10 - where Kerouac wrote The Dharma Bums, where he entertained a Time Magazine photographer after On the Road made him famous, where Jack was living meagerly, nearly broke, writing at night when it was coolest. The neighbors could hear his typing until the dawn.

I answered the door.

"Hello," he said. "Is this the place?"

Obviously I knew exactly what he was asking, and I knew he already knew the answer.

"Yes it is," I said. "This is the place."

"Wow. And you? Are the you writer living here now?"

We talked for 15 minutes about the house and Kerouac, and although I was working and didn't offer to allow him inside, I did encourage him to look around the back of the house near the apartment entrance.

"So this is where he laid down on the ground to try to sweat out the flu?"

Kerouac came back from a road trip to Mexico and was ill. He slept on the ground in the Florida heat, hoping to rid his body of the sickness.

"And those steps there," I said, gesturing with my hand, "that's where he sat with a stack of oranges and his cat in his lap. There's a famous photo of that moment."

"Right there?" he said, pointing.

"Right there," I replied.

He smiled, shook his head imagining Kerouac life here, and in awe of where he was standing.

There are few places in the world where American literary ghosts remain: Hemingway's homes in Key West and in Cuba, and the Steinbeck House in California. But here in Orlando - there is something more. The Kerouac House is NOT a museum, not a pristine place where you can't touch the history. No. Here you can live with the ghost, experience the lingering muse, and let it all sink into your soul.

"Are you feeling a little of Jack?" he asked.

"Every single day," I said, "every single day."

David

Distractions - But Not Quite.

2011-06-25T17:17:00.001-07:00

If you think the Orlando area is all about Mickey and believe commercialism and "tacky-ism" is everywhere, think - not only again, but again and again and again.

I've been here at the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando nearly a month now, and haven't ventured out much to explore the area, sticking to the writing work at hand and some of the wonderful spots right here in College Park - Infusion Teas, Credo, and Christo's. But today I spent nearly the entire day checking out some go-to suggestions from the new friends I've made here.

Earlier this past week, I was invited to join the Essay Club meeting in the heart of the downtown. It works like this: members choose an essay - old, new, avant-garde, traditional, hard-hitting, lighthearted - read it ahead of time, then grab a bite to eat, a couple of beers or glasses of wine, and have at it, discussing the essay and morphing into anywhere it takes them. First of all - what a great idea! And second - what great people! Delightful group with interesting insight and considerations not only for the writing but for the venue. We went to a design-your-own burger spot in the trendy Magnolia and Pine area. The burger was tremendous, but the beer - Widmer - was terrific. First time tasting the citrus infused brew. It is a beauty for a hot summer night. But also, this group had FANTASTIC IDEAS for a Orlando transplant, and today I checked out some of those suggestions, heading for breakfast at the Briarpatch in Winter Park and a peek at the boat tour there so many have talked about, a walk and a stop near a great cafe in Hanover Park, a bike ride around Lake Eola, a drive to a hidden Cuban deli, and a walk through the downtown.

But in between all this - some writing. Yep, got to keep at it. The first draft is nearly complete, and soon it will be time to tear it all apart and fine-tune over and over. Some don't like the re-drafting process, but I enjoy it. It's like shining silver, the more you brush it - the more it shines, and watching it emerge from any early tarnishes is exactly what a writer hopes to see

However, when the process gets tedious - I now have a list of great places to escape to and recharge the battery.

David

Literary Golf

2011-06-19T14:31:00.000-07:00

Just a thought on this U.S. Open Sunday. What would some of the literary geniuses be like as golfers?

There have been rabid golfers in the literary world. John Updike was the biggest in the modern world. He loved the game, even wrote about it. One of his best short stories "Farrell's Caddie" is a gem for golfers and non-golfers.

But what I'm thinking about today while watching Rory McIlroy destroy the field at Congressional Country Club from the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando, is what kind of golfer would Jack have been?

First - he was athletic. He won a football scholarship to Columbia University and was a star player in high school. He also played baseball. You would think he would be a natural. But of course, golf isn't always that kind. What Jack may have had going for him would have been his Buddha-like thinking, his Zen demeanor and sensitivities. Golf is a mind game, and a spiritual one in many ways. Jack, no doubt, was a spiritual guy, despite his demons. Combine that with his athletic ability, well, he may have been a solid golfer. Jack did most of his writing at night, sometimes all night long, probably lending itself to liking those early morning, dew sweeper tee times.

All this said, Jack probably would have rather spent his four golf hours writing than hitting a ball around beautiful settings. But I do think Jack would have had an appreciation for the game, a clear sensitivity for what is needed to be good at it and accept its difficulties. Who knows, he may have even written a haiku about the experience.

Hemingway had his hunting and fishing, John Irving had his wrestling, and Baker his golf. If I had to pick one sport Jack might have taken up, my guess would be the game that requires 18 holes to finish and a certain poetry to master. It just seems fitting.

David

Letters, Letters...We've Got Letters.

2011-06-15T17:49:00.000-07:00

The library at the Jack Kerouac House is a beaut! There are works by Jack, including poetry. plus biographies, studies of his literary style, and books of letters.

In one volume are many of the letters he penned while at this house in Orlando: letters to editors, friends, fellow writers like Ginsberg and Snyder, and family. Letters laced with anger, some with sweetness, some with regret, some with contempt for publishers, editors, reviewers and critics. The volumes of letters may be the most telling of the inner literary genius and, maybe more so, the inner man.

Kerouac was complex, to say the least; a man who knew his faults but believed in his work. A sweet son when he wished, a great friend when he cared to be, and even a good husband - at times.

Letters - it's a shame we don't write them like we used to. A volume of email exchanges from a writer like Kerouac just wouldn't be the same.

David

Okay, NOW it's Summer.

2011-06-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

I was told when I arrived at the Kerouac House this the summer that the heat hadn't yet made its way to Central Florida. Today, it arrived. It's closing in on 100 degrees in the city of Orlando. Yes, the Kerouac House, as old as it is, has air conditioning. Thanks for asking. And now I'm sitting inside a very cool, artsy tea shop - Infusion Tea - drinking iced Jubilee tea sweetened with agave. I'm guessing maybe 50 kinds of teas sit in jars along the back wall of Infusion, and on the north side of the building is a co-op art shop. I'll be back.

I'm doing what I'm supposed to do down here - write, write, write. I spend at least 5-6 hours each day writing or editing. Most days have gone pretty well, churning it out. But yesterday I hit some muddy roads, I can usually get out a solid 500-1000 words a day that I feel are at least first-draft strong, but Sunday I struggled with one potential chapter, rewriting it eight times. Now, redrafting is not unusual, but this was like walking through grainy, slippery sand on a hot Florida beach - one heavy foot after another heavy foot, trudging along trying not to get burned. But oddly, I loved it. Call me crazy.

I broke away this past Saturday morning to get in a round of golf and I met some wonderful guys. One of them teamed up with me to challenge the other in an 18-hole match. We won. The others bought the beer, and we told stories of our families, our travels, our golf games. That's when one from the losing duo - a self-described "West Virginia hillbilly" - asked if I had a name yet for my book-in-progress. He wanted to know what it was so he wouldn't "screw up and buy it!"

It was all in fun, but he was apparently done handing over any more winnings to me.

And so it goes from hot Orlando!

David

Feeling like...Home?

2011-06-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

I've been at Jack Kerouac's House at the JK Project in Orlando for just over a week now, and I wonder - could it feel like home already?

A friend reminded me the other night on the phone how when you have few errands to run (if any), no office to go to (just Jack's room in the back of the house), and don't have to get in your car to live your daily life (only once so far to buy a printer cartridge), then finding a great place to spend your days, maybe ANY place, can feel pretty good. That may be true, but I do like the College Park neighborhood in Orlando. It reminds me of some of the wonderful neighborhoods in Chicago where walking is the usual mode of transportation and there are great coffee shops, an old-school diner, a hardware store, places of worship, and a solid grocery store all within a short bike ride or walk.

And the people have been friendly, like most, really. It's not just a Orlando trait, is it? But I did meet a sweet lady today. Helen is my neighbor just across from Jack's house. I'll give her first name only for her privacy. She lives there with her sweet dog, Sarah. She, the dog, appears to have some Basset Hound in her, but I'm not sure. Sarah has those stubby legs, those big ears, and that bulky body. Scratch her tummy and she moans.

College Park and Jack's neighborhood does not have a lock on hospitality or friendliness, but what it does have is a willingness to embrace a stranger, a writer-type that lives alone in a tiny house where no one knows what's really going on in there. They respect my space, my need for some solitude, but still - like all the rest of us - want to connect.

David

Haiku Experiment

2011-06-07T07:22:00.000-07:00

Kerouac was a master at the Western haiku. Not the one limited by the 5-7-5 syllables of the Japanese haiku, but the more free-form version. He was adamant however about not using what he called "literary trickery" like metaphor, but in my attempts I'm not so sure I was able to stick to that form. He also worked to get a sense of season in the haiku, a tradition. I gave that a shot also, trying to be subtle. He was also inconsistent about using punctuation; sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't.

So, I gave it a shot during breaks in manuscript writing.

Here's one of my favorites from Jack:

Crossing the football field,

coming home from work,

The lonely businessman

And another:

The summer chair

rocking by itself

In the blizzard

And a couple of my own attempts:

Scurrying lizards on the porch

quick to safety shade

My writing waits

And another:

Bike to cup of coffee

a path in the sun

To mediate

And so it goes from Jack's place...

David

The Lizard King

2011-06-06T14:22:00.000-07:00

Of course, that's the Door's Jim Morrison, I know. But it could be Jack Kerouac, too. The front porch of Jack's house is a lizard haven. Little grecko-type reptiles scatter when I open the door. Probably about a hand's length long. Some of them bellow in the throat like a bull frog. Quite impressive.

Good day of writing today. Couple chapters shaped. And got word on a workshop I'll be collaborating on with Mad about Words, a great friend of the Kerouac House and a fine group of writers pulling together workshops for those who want to tell their stories. It will be sometime in July and if you're in the Orlando area, worth checking on. More when things are confirmed.

Visitors are coming! Visitors are coming! A few people planning to come down to say hello over the next months. My wonderful girlfriend will be down over the Fourth, my son Graham later that month for a couple days, and my dear friend, Brad from Denver will stop by for a few days in early August. My older son, Casey, probably will not be able to make it. He's a busy creative guy as it is, and has a FULL summer. Go get 'em, young man.

Oh yes, and to answer the question I am most asked: Is it hot down here? Yep, it is. But it's not unbearable. It's welcome. Remember, home for me is Chicago!

Out on the bike for a bit, a cup of coffee, and many emails to return. Then - back to Jack's room for the tapping of the keys!

David

Jazz, Kerouac, and a Summer Night in Orlando

2011-06-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

What does one say about a magnificent night? You know the kind: the one that lingers; the one that won't let you sleep when it over. That's this night in Orlando.

I sit on the porch at the Kerouac house with a liquor-tinged cup of coffee considering the gift I have been given: the chance to write and perform here. It's very early Sunday morning and I'm just back from a lovely event at the splendid home of Summer Rodman, a board member of the Jack Kerouac Project, a sweet, energetic woman - and an accomplished poet. The Per Danielsson Trio played marvelously complex piano and string bass jazz, the kind Jack would have loved. Joseph Reed Hayes, poet and playwright, read from his work. And I had the opportunity to read from my new - in progress – manuscript, and breathe the same air of some 100 other creative comrades who love art, the beauty of jazz, and the spoken word.

The event was webcast live and I'm sure it will be available to see again through the Jazz on Edge website (www.jazzonedge.com) but the real thrill was being there live, drinking the wine, talking about Kerouac, sharing my work with other talented artists - poets, writers, musicians. The creative life was alive tonight in Orlando, a heart beating to the rhythms of so many good souls.

The neighborhood is quiet now; only the crickets and a far-off train whistle hang in the heavy Florida air. But if these were the late 1950s, there would be one other sound carrying over this memorable night: the furious tap of the keys on Kerouac's Underwood, emanating from the small room in the back where Jack wrote until morning under a lonely, naked light bulb. It is said that one of Jack's neighbors used to hear the music of Kerouac's typing move lightly out of the small apartment and into dark night. What I would give to hear a little of that tonight? Ah, but it's early. There are many hours before dawn.

David B

Kerouac Admirers at the Door

2011-06-03T16:01:00.000-07:00

Another day of good writing and reading here at Jack's house. I'm working in the early mornings after a bike ride, writing in Jack's room for 3-4 hours. I take a break to eat, make more coffee, take another quick ride, and then edit. I might return in the mid-to-late afternoon to begin again, but only work for another hour or so.

Today, during a break for coffee, I tried my hand at a few haikus. Jack was a master at the Western Haiku, poems not restrained by the 5-7-5 syllable lines. It was like Kerouac to break the rules. There's a book here of Kerouac's haikus, hundreds of them. They inspired me. Not ready to share them yet. I'll let them sit for a day before offering them up.

Just about 5:30pm local time, I had my first "Kerouac hunters" knock at the door. Although that phrase seems a little pejorative, these were not the Kerouac crazies who can show up at Kerouac haunts drunk and full of bravado. These were two nice ladies spending some time in Orlando who just wanted to see Jack's place. They were polite and interested, and well-informed about Kerouac, this house, and his time in Orlando. They took pictures and we talked for a half hour or so. It was good. I suspect they won't be the last.

Tonight, I sit on the front porch, a great cool breeze on a crystal clear night. I'll take one more bike spin before dark and choose a reading I've been asked to perform at a Saturday night benefit for the Jack Kerouac Project. Tomorrow - an early rise, morning writing, and a day spent in the Florida sun.

Can anyone say - paradise...

David

Twenty-Four Hours and One Vision of Jack

2011-06-02T16:20:00.000-07:00

The back part of this Florida bungalow is where Jack lived with his mother for a time. He rented the space for something like $40 a month, a fortune for a guy who had no real job and had not yet published On the Road. He got word of its publication while living here.

Last night, before going to bed in the front part of the home, I stepped into Jack's room in the dark. There was just a hint of light coming from the north facing window, the outside porch light of the house next door. On the wall in that room is a photograph from a news photographer who came here to take pictures of Jack for a Time magazine article. It shows Jack in that very room, typing the publisher's manuscript from the scroll that was the first draft of The Dharma Bums. There's something of a shyness in his eyes, a reluctance to the fame about to envelope him, which we all know was eventually the root of his demise. I could see only the shadows of that photo, but for a moment, it appeared to slightly move, like an old-fashioned movie house picture show. Of course, it was only the meager light dancing on the black-and-white photo. But I like to think that Jack's energy is what made that photo move. His energy everywhere in this place.

There are also lizards.

Yep, those small central Florida lizards. They'll not exactly in the house, but they are outside. They scurry when I go out to the front porch, fast and furious like Jack's typing. And the gigantic oak tree that shades this home is, as one poet who stayed here said, one large pencil scratching out words on the old tin roof. The branch lightly touches the house as if recording the life of those who are lucky enough to stay inside.

Jack kept hundreds of little notebooks with sketches and words and thoughts, scribbled out with pencil and pen. Maybe that's where Jack's ghost resides - in the beauty of that big oak, scribbling out his musings on the tallest part of the house, the part closest to heaven, nirvana.

Twenty-four hours have passed. I have decided to live in the front section of the house and write in Jack's room, so I can be there when the light again catches that photo.

David B

Living in Jack Kerouac's House

2011-06-01T18:49:00.000-07:00

After 1200 miles of driving, one harsh and heavy rainstorm, and a bad breakfast in Macon, Georgia, I have made it to the Jack Kerouac Project in Orlando.

I'm staying in Kerouac's house in the College Park area. I was awarded this opportunity about nine months ago and will be able to stay here and work, write, and look for Jack's ghost through mid-August. I am thrilled to be here.

Incredible story about this house. This is where he lived with his mother when he wrote The Dharma Bums. It was here that he lived when he became an overnight sensation after a tremendous review of On the Road in the NY Times. The house was discovered by a local TV news reporter in Orlando, and when he found it, the place was in shambles. Literally - squirrels ran in and out of it. Long story short - a foundation was formed, and after a long haul and a lot of trip-ups, the place was cleaned out, renovated, and offered to writers by award to stay here and write.

It's a marvelous Florida bungalow. Very small, but cozy, sitting in the leafy neighborhood of College Park with its neat little bars and coffee shops and Infusion Tea - a popular spot for local writers. It's quite a bohemian neighborhood. Kind of fits, huh? Although it wasn't like that when Kerouac came to town.

There was a neighbor who lived across the street when Kerouac lived here. She's gone now. But before she died, she spoke of hearing the furious typewriter keys coming from the Kerouac house late into the evening and through the night, Jack's favorite time to write. Shortly after On the Road was published, Jack gave her a first edition copy and signed it...

To Mrs. McCray

my good neighbor

Jack Kerouac

The book was given to the woman who once lived in Kerouac's house just before Mrs. McCray died. She kept the book in a sealed plastic bag, hoping to save it from the humidity and bugs.

Tonight, I sit on the front porch of this place and look at the Florida stars, longing for a sign from Jack. I may have already received it. I hope to complete a manuscript while I'm here and take in the vibe that must still exist throughout these rooms, must still hang in its wall

Best,

David

On the Road...Soon

2011-05-09T09:29:00.000-07:00

In about three weeks I'll be packing up the Nissan and heading south. (Reminds me of the John Hiatt song - "Come on Baby Drive South" - Love that song!) My destination is the Jack Kerouac house in Orlando's College Park neighborhood. A few month's ago I was honored to be awarded the Writer-in-Residence position at the Jack Kerouac Project. I plan to be there, writing and reading and conducting workshops through early August.

Beginning on June 1, I'll be living in the house that Jack built. Well, actually, the house that On the Road built. Kerouac's home in Orlando is where he and his mother lived after the success of On the Road. Kerouac wrote The Dharma Bums in this house in a small back bedroom. Although On the Road is Kerouac's iconic masterpiece, "Bum" may be my favorite of his works.

When I was awarded the residency, one of the organizations of project and foundation that cares for the Kerouac house warned me it would be "hotter than hell" down there in the summer. I don't mind. Bring it on. I'm living in Kerouac's place! Besides, during the renovation of the home organizers figured they better put air conditioning in even though it was not part of the original home. Good thinking. Good for me.

I am currently working on a project related to a Kerouac-inspired trip I took with my two teenage boys a few years ago. So, even though it may seem a little contrived to be working on a manuscript loosely connected to Kerouac in Kerouac's house, it honestly isn't. Truly, it's a coincidence. When I applied for the residency, I never mentioned the project in the form it's now taking. But, I must say, it's kind of uniquely coincidental that this writing project and this residency came together this way. Fate?

I decided to drive to Orlando from Chicago, giving me some flexibility for travel while I'm in Florida. And from my calculations on MapQuest, I'm figuring a two day drive, stopping somewhere in Tennessee for some shut eye. Seems appropriate to take a road trip to get to Kerouac's house, right? A plane? That really wouldn't be true to the process, now would it?

I hope to keep a blog while I'm in Orlando, updating any and all who are interested in my stay there. I hope you'll join me - even if it's in cyberspace - for a very unique experience.

Maybe I'll run into Jack's ghost while I'm there. Who knows.

Best,

David

Books to Re-Read

2011-04-17T07:35:00.000-07:00

I am reading for the fourth time in years the book Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I love this book, it inspires me, keeps me on track with my writing, just when I most need it. I'm writing some fiction and Anne's thoughts on how plot develops - worry about the characters and the plot will come - is just a wonderful piece of advise.

But re-reading Bird by Bird made me think about other writing books that should be re-read.

Here's a great list:

1. Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott

2. The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard

3. Writing Begins with the Breath, by Loraine Herring

4. Ernest Hemingway on Writing, edited by Larry W. Phillips

Sometimes inspiration comes from the re-do, the re-read. Go back and take another look. It's bound to kick start your work.

David

Making a Shift

2011-04-16T05:58:00.000-07:00

I don't write a lot of fiction, but recently I pulled together a short story, of course, based on SOME fact. I'm not sure I know how to do it any other way. It was okay, but something was missing from the approach. It seemed, well, a bit lifeless. Then just a day ago while on a Southwest flight from a conference in Las Vegas, I had an idea. What if I changed the point of view? What if I changed the main character to the narrator? Because I have written so many personal essays and memoir, along with journalism, this little shift hadn't occurred to me, although in retrospect it now seems like a natural approach.

If in personal essay the narrator is YOU, then way can't the narrator be the main character in the fiction, as if YOU were that person. I know this may seem rudimentary, simplistic, junior high English comp class, but here is the bigger point...

When you are working on a story - any genre - and it just seems flat, awkward, off-balance, try making a shift in the POV. Try writing the same story from the narrator's point of view or another character's point of view. Maybe the girlfriend of the main character tells the story, maybe the mother, the father, a boss, a teacher. Sometimes this immediately brings new life to a story, a new sparkle that was missing in the older version. Have fun with it. Play around. It can give a once flat story some depth and texture.

David

Chicago's Storytellers.

2011-04-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

In my career, I have done a number of readings, mostly portions of my memoir Accidental Lessons. But recently I have been expanding, exploring my storytelling and have been taking part in a couple of Story Club events, along with a event called Essay Fiesta later this month. (April 18th at the Book Cellar in Chicago, 7pm)

Last night I was at Uncommon Ground in the Wrigleyville neighborhood to read a story (First Date) from my new manuscript, Ghost Boxing.

But this is really beside the point.

Here is the real point...

The storytelling community in Chicago, and elsewhere, is really rockin'. There are over six storytelling groups (and probably more that I don't know about) in the city of Chicago, giving writers of all levels a chance to put their material out in front of an audience. If you have never done this before, try it. Make sure you work your "print" story for the "ear" and practice your stage presence. There is no need to be intimidated. There are plenty of first timers, people honing their craft, and learning to shape their stories. But there are also some brilliant performers from which to learn.

The genre - telling a story in front of an audience - is not like a traditional "reading" for an author. Oh sure, you can "read" the work - in fact, I would encourage NOT trying to do it off the cuff or by memory - but learn to bring that story alive with pauses, pace changing, vocal emphasis, whispers, yells, and living dialogue.

One of the more well-known events is The Moth, which is also a public radio show and quite popular. But Story Club, which I have been involved with lately, is wonderfully run and professionally handled. Another up and comer is This Much is True.

I encourage you, if you're a writer, take in an event, see what it's like, and then get out there. Plenty of open-mic opportunities exist. It is a superb way to get immediate feedback on your work. And, needless to say, tons of fun!

Actively reading aloud,

David

Support is What a Writer Needs

2011-04-02T16:08:00.001-07:00

Had the chance recently to contribute to a wonderful association's newsletter: National Association of Memoir Writers. Such good people. The association supports storytellers at all levels, with all kinds of personal tales to tell.

I hope that my words can somehow help just one of the readers. We all have stories to tell, we just have to know the best ways to tell them.

My Life is Just Not That Interesting - by David W. Berner

Best,

David

Reading for Writers...Inspired!

2011-04-01T05:37:00.001-07:00

Read a wonderful article in Huffington Post this morning. I thought it was going to be the tired "here's what you should read if you want to be a writer" kind of story. And, it was, but just a little. What was different was this story touched on the writer's own journey and how the books listed would be helpful for the ART of writing, not the SCIENCE of publishing.

Seven Books for Writers- by Deanna Fei

Sure, we all want to be recognized as writers in print, on the web, whatever the distribution mechanism may be. But, writing - true writing - is not about publishing. It's about WRITING.

The list in the Huffington piece points out great choices. Some picks are found on my own list that I present at workshops, and like the Huffington piece, I believe these choices are true to the writing life, not the publishing life. Write first, rewrite second, and publishing will come.

Here's my list. Hope it helps.

Writing Begins with the Breath: Embodying Your Authentic Voice

Loraine Herring, Publisher: Shambhala

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Anne Lamott, Publisher: Anchor

The Writing Life

Annie Dillard, Publisher: Harper Perennial

Telling True Stories: A Nonfiction Writer’s Guide

Mark Kramer and Wendy Call, Publisher: Plume

Shimmering Images: A Handy Little Guide to Writing Memoir

Lisa Dale North, Publisher: St. Martin’s Griffin

Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir

Russell Baker, Publisher: Mariner Books

Ernest Hemingway on Writing

Editor: Larry W. Phillips, Publisher: Scribner

The Spooky Art: Thoughts on Writing

Norman Mailer, Publisher: Random House

Want to Write? Don't Do It for the Money.

2011-03-31T07:15:00.000-07:00

A friend on a Yahoo Group recently linked us to an author who was musing about how writer's will make money in the future. I want to know how they're going to make money NOW?

I was at a recent Chicago Writer's Association event giving a presentation about The Writing Life. It's one I've given before in some shape or form. I always talk about "knowing your values." What I mean by that is this: think about why you write; determine what it is that motivates you to put story to paper. Most will say it's not about money. Well, it better not be because you are not going to get rich. Oh sure, there will be a few breakouts who will write a bestseller and get big four-book contracts, but that is a very...very...small percentage.

When I used to work full time in the broadcasting business, I was asked about making money all the time by students and career seekers. "You make a lot, right?" they'd ask. All they had heard about were the salaries of Howard Stern and Oprah. Just like in the literary world, about 1-percent of the broadcasters are millionaires, most rough out a respectable living, some starve. At the recent BEA (Book Expo America), a presenter had a statistic: something like 3-5 percent of the books published sell more than 1000 copies; the rest less fewer. Fewer than 1000!

It's become a cliche, but you better be writing because you can't think of doing anything else that is so satisfying, rewarding, insightful.

Remember - Van Gogh was a pauper. He sold his first painting only after his death. This is not to be negative, it's about "knowing your values." If you're writing because you want to be rich, I would suggest making writing a hobby and go get your MBA. Come to think of it, these days getting your MBA may not make you rich, either. :)

David W. Berner

The Wild, Wild West of Publishing Rides Again

2011-03-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

A group of writers from the Chicago Writers Association have been kicking around a discussion about self-publishing and traditional publishing. Not exactly a new fresh subject these days, I know. So much talk about the way to go for an author with a manuscript, and even more talk about readers - how do they really want to read an author's work? Paper, digital bytes?

I saw this in the NY Times this morning...

Amanda Hocking Signs Book Deal with St. Martin's Press

If you are a writer, looking for a publisher or an agent, this story is worth a read. It's not the typical of the publishing world these days - but, it is a sign, I believe, of how the change has come and is likely never going to reverse itself, of how publishers are rethinking their existence, and of how self-publishing has taken on new and interesting hues, and the colors just keep on changing.

David W. Berner

Remember the REAL Elizabeth Taylor

2011-03-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

I didn't grow up in the Mad Men era of Elizabeth Taylor. I remember her mostly as a celebrity, a philanthropist, and a friend of Michael Jackson. But, even as a little boy, I was keenly aware of the black-n-white images of Taylor, especially from the movies Butterfield 8 and Giant, and I was enthralled. She was stunning, strong, interesting. Even as a pre-pubescent I knew there was something special about her. Oh sure, she was beautiful. But it was more than that. She was real.

Elizabeth Taylor was my mother's favorite. Or, wait, was that Audrey Hepburn? Or Eva Gardner? Well, Taylor was certainly ONE of her favorites. My mother, when she was a young woman, looked a bit like Taylor. Not to take away anything from my mother, but there were a lot of women in those grainy black-n-white photos from the late 50s and early 60s that looked like actresses. Everyone was always dressed up, hair perfect, smiling in that 'ingenue' sort of way. Elizabeth Taylor was part of the reason.

If you only know Taylor as an older woman, heftier than her movie days, sitting in the audience at an awards ceremony, or showing up on a goofy talk show, or making tabloid news with ailments and strange marriages to construction workers, then you have missed out on the story of one of Hollywood's most endearing, candid, talented stars from an era when "star" really meant something.

Over the next few days, maybe over the weekend, rent an Elizabeth Taylor movie - a good one - A Place in the Sun, Giant, Butterfield 8, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf (forget Cleopatra) - and marvel how she takes over the screen, but yet seems so accessible. If you're younger than 50, it's likely you know only half of her marvelous story. Take some time to read about, take in, watch the early and middle years of her time before the camera and discover an American original.

David W. Berner

Where is all the good writing? Right in front of you!

2011-03-22T06:46:00.000-07:00

I was reading a piece in the latest GQ magazine this morning over oatmeal and coffee. "Operation Iraqi Vacation" by Saki Knafo is a wonderful piece. It's first-person journalism, memoir, and personal essay all wrapped into one. And it got me thinking about where all the good writing is these days? What I mean by that is this - with all the new platforms for writing, where can one find the truly solid, authentic, meaningful writing?

It's not a simple answer, really. But I do have my own observations. GQ, as much as it can be an advertising hound (more ad pages than real writing), it still has at least one tremendous piece of writing every month. But my favorite old-style magazine for great writing remains Esquire. In its heyday it was unmatched. Hemingway wrote in Esquire, for goodness sake! But even today, it has a marvelous bench of writers, consistently producing engaging, interesting, sometimes groundbreaking work, and much of it is personal essay/journalism.

Certainly there's plenty of good writing on the web. SLATE comes to mind, and there are others. Sure, there's a lot of junk on the web. But there are gems too. Obviously, the great writing in the NY Times, The New Yorker, etc. is still there and of course found on the web.

One other thing today - related, somewhat.

It's the birthday today of poet Billy Collins. Who once said, "My poetry is suburban, it's domestic, it's middle class, and it's sort of unashamedly that, but I hope there's enough imaginative play in there that it's not simply poems about barbecuing."

I love this! It reminds me that memoir and personal essay does not have to be fantastical. It does not have to be incredibly harrowing. It just has to relate to the human condition in a way that is uniquely reflective. This also reminds me of John Updike's famous line, "My only duty was to describe reality as it had come to me—and to give the mundane its beautiful due."

Live your day, remember your moments.

David W. Berner

Online Writing Workshops, Classes

2011-03-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

I teach college, and when I teach online classes, they are exclusively writing classes. When I was in school finishing my MFA in Creative Writing at Fairleigh Dickinson University, all of my classes were online. When we met in person it was at a designated residency. They were very helpful and fruitful residencies, I will say. But, honestly, the online writing classes were the best of the process - convenient, efficient, and highly rewarding.

I find the same thing when I teach a class online. Yes, it can be a bit impersonal. But the feedback I am able to give and the give-and-take online between teacher and student works exceptionally well. I am even able to deliver "lectures" on You Tube or Vimeo. Now, not all online classes work as well as writing-based online classes. I believe web-based creative writing workshops, if facilitated well, can be a dynamite experience for everyone.

Don't dismiss taking an online writing class. Sure, check out the credentials of the teacher, the institution or school conducting the class, but be open, willing to work with the new technologies, not against them. It will benefit you and your writing as you move forward as an artist.

David W. Berner

Re-Drafting, Editing, is NEVER Over

2011-03-14T10:19:00.000-07:00

I have a few things going on.

First, I have a new manuscript I'm shopping around. Second, I'm beginning (very much BEGINNING) a new manuscript, a child's memoir of the 1960s. Third, I've been doing a number of readings around Chicago. There are a few more things, like touch-up painting at my house, moving furniture around, selling a few things on Craigslist, getting ready for some travel related to writing work - Vegas, Rockford, Illinois and Orlando (I'm pleased to have been named the Writer-in-Residence at the Jack Kerouac Project) - and taking the car to the shop.

The first three, however, have fueled, in a way, yet another "something" I've been doing: editing.

Does it every stop? Every time I send out the manuscript for an agent or editor, I tweak it, compulsively. I change a sentence, rework a paragraph, substitute a word. It's never anything major, but there is ALWAYS...something. Then in the new manuscript, when I write one day and return to it the next for a redraft, I edit again. And with the readings, well, that's continual editing. As many of your know, reading your work, making it ready for the spoken word, sometimes means a bit of rewriting to allow it to be at its best when delivered live. So, yes, more editing.

The redrafting, the editing process, never goes away. You can edit forever. There is never a perfect manuscript, it seems. Even if it's technically right, the subjectivity of an editor or agent will request a shift, a change, an edit in content.

Writing is not a scientific endeavor; it's an art. Creative writing is a living, breathing entity. It has its own life, in many ways, and needs to be massaged. Sure, sooner or later in the real world, we have to say, "This is it. This is as good as it's getting" and stop the redrafting. Deadlines help, right? But sometimes our internal clock, and our internal self-confidence has to allow us to put the work "to bed."

It's not easy, I can attest to that. In fact, this blog entry is coming to an end right now because I have some editing to do.

David

Question of the Day...

2011-03-08T14:31:00.001-08:00

Is the personal essay becoming the "I've got something wrong with me" essay? Disease, abuse, death of a loved-one. I've got nothing against this. There is a place for it and some of the writing on these subjects is incredibly wonderful, heartfelt, and strong. But can't we write a couple of personal essays/memoirs that are NOT about the three Ds - death, disease, and dysfunction?

Think Phillip Lopate's - "Confessions of a Shusher" - PLEASE!

Just a thought in my day...

David W. Berner

More Publicity than Charlie Sheen!

2011-03-08T14:22:00.000-08:00

Well, not really. But Charlie is EVERYWHERE! So, any author would love to have the level of his pub. Of course, not the content of his pub. Train wreck!

Good things since last checking in...

I was privileged to present at the Writer's Festival at University of Wisconsin this past weekend. Two workshops: one on memoir, another on outlining for creative people. Good students, good group, fun time.

New honor. I'm humbled to have been award 2nd place in the My Kind of Town writing competition for the Chicago Writer's Association. (CWA) Congrats to Cynthia Clampitt for his first place essay, and Geralyn Mcgrady's third place work. Great reading!

And - ACCIDENTAL LESSONS, my memoir, has been featured twice now at Book Daily (www.bookdaily.com). You can go there and read a full chapter, if you like.

Getting ready for a presentation at the Beverly Library in Chicago and then to Rockford for a reading/signing/presentation for a new writer's group and an event at Barnes and Noble. Looking forward to it.

Now, regarding Charlie Sheen - HE should write a memoir! Oh, he is! Well...of course he is....

Best.

David W. Berner

Bracelets of Grace and Reading Out Loud!

2011-01-10T17:30:00.000-08:00

Hello all! It's been far too long since my last entry. Why is that? Simple. Busy. No excuses. Just busy and many times, as you read from many bloggers, I probably was far too ambitious about keeping the blog up to date. And so it goes, right?

So, to update...

The audio documentary about the Vietnam era POW-MIA bracelets - Bracelets of Grace - has had great airplay on public radio stations all around the country. It will soon be available at Audible.com as an audio book, along with two other of my audio documentaries - Pebble Beach Stories and Finding My Kerouac.

And, I continue to write and now that I'm on academic sabbatical from my position at Columbia College Chicago, will step-up my efforts to complete a book of essays on fatherhood, tentatively entitled Ghostboxing. AND - I am beginning to do more and more readings at the microphone in venues around Chicago. This past Sunday night, I was thrilled to be part of the Two With Water/Curbside Publishing reading at The Beauty Bar on Chicago Avenue in Chicago. About a month ago, I was also part of a reading/signing event at The Book Cellar in Lincoln Square, Chicago. Just the best book store! Hope to get back there soon.

And about reading out loud...

There is nothing as wonderful as sharing literary works out loud in the presence of enthusiastic audiences. The energy, the feedback, the atmosphere of artistic gifts given aloud. I'll be back, somewhere soon, to do it all again.

Keeping writing!

David W. Berner

New documentary - Bracelets of Grace - almost done!

2010-09-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

The POW-MIA bracelets of the Vietnam War era made an incredible impression on all those who wore them. Millions of bracelets with the name of a missing or imprisoned soldier were worn on the wrists of family, friends, supporters and critics of the war. It may have been the only item - the only common bond - that crossed the tumultuous political divide.

In 2004, a talk show host at a Chicago radio station was taking callers on this discussion subject: What do you own that you just can't ever throw away? One caller responded by saying she still had the POW-MIA bracelet she wore during the Vietnam War. That phone call prompted dozens of others to call in about their bracelets, telling their stories of wearing them and keeping them safely tucked away in jewelry boxes, night stand drawers and attic boxes.

"I just can't ever let this go," said one caller."This was MY soldier."

The emotions behind the stories of the bracelets told that day on the radio talk show were genuine and true, and they prompted me to begin the research that has led me to the rich and powerful story of U.S. Air Force Major Stanley Horne. In January of 1968 Major Horne's plane was shot down over North Vietnam. Soon afterward his name was one of the many engraved on a POW-MIA bracelet. His story, and the story of those who wore his bracelet, not only tell the narrative of the bracelets' impact, but also the story of how America struggled with the war and tried to heal from the scars it left behind.

BRACELETS OF GRACE - An audio documentary - is Major Horne's story, the bracelets' story and the story of how a soldier's family and a nation grieves and attempts to mend from it's tragedies.

This November 11th, Veterans Day, is the 40th anniversary of the POW-MIA bracelets of the Vietnam War. I'm hoping to have the documentary on radio stations nationwide.

On this blog, BRACELETS OF GRACE tell your personal stories of the POW-MIA bracelets. Share them with all of us who remember the bracelets and still cherish having worn them.

This is my latest story.

Oh, and by the way ACCIDENTAL LESSONS is now in a new printing - hardcover.

Peace,

David W. Berner

Bracelets of Grace (Audio Documentary)

2010-09-03T11:58:00.000-07:00

It's a been a bit. My fault. I've been working on my audio documentary about the MIA-POW bracelets of the Vietnam War era, and it's been intense. GOOD intense, though. That kind of intense when you can see, feel, and hear the work coming together. I'm so happy with what I've been able to discover from this story and so grateful to the family of Major Stanley Horne of Madison, Wisconsin. They have been so wonderful to me, giving me access to personal letters and documents. The major's story is the focus of the narrative of the documentary, taking the listener through the making of the bracelets, what the bracelets stood for, and how they crossed the divide between those against the war and those supporting it during those incredible and tumultuous times.

I will be soon starting a blog, a place where anyone who has stories about their POW-MIA bracelets can enter a post, write about what the bracelet meant to them. It will also be a place for those who lost loved ones in Vietnam but are thankful for the bracelet campaign and how it helped them through those difficult times. I'll be promoting the blog and the documentary soon, hoping to have it aired on radio stations across the country and possibly be available for download at Audible.com where some of my other material has been offered.

Before I get the bracelet blog going, if you have any personal stories of the bracelets you'd like to share, please write me here at this blog. We would all love to read them.

Peace,
David

Love Those Re-Writes!

2010-08-04T18:14:00.000-07:00

I've been writing a new memoir and in the last few days have been working through the drafts of several chapters and stories within the manuscript. I love this process. Always have.

The rewriting is the most rewarding because this is where you really start to see the story unfold. Sure, as you're writing, you're meandering, sometimes struggling, through murky story lines, the ups and downs of the plot, hoping to weave your writing into some, you hope, cohesive larger piece. But when you rewrite, that is where the story starts to really come to life. Yes, this is also where you see the holes in the narrative; where dates don't match, ages are off. Details, details. And yes, all of those things have to, must be, repaired, justified. But through all this, you also are now seeing what the story really is. What it is you really want to say is finally emerging clearly through the fog.

As I write those first drafts, I really don't know where I'm going with my stories. Most of them are memoir or nonfiction, and yes, I have many parts of the narrative already laid out for me. But the underlying life of the piece, the true meaning, isn't yet clear. Ah, but during the rewriting, that is where it all begins to surface. Like bread, the real story rises, you hope, to become nourishment for the reader's soul, mind, and heart. That is what you wish for, what you strive for, and pray you can, just once, someday, somewhere, accomplish.

New memoir - Now, your feedback.

2010-06-27T14:03:00.000-07:00

Here is the opening story in my new memoir. Give it a read, make a comment. Have at it.

- - -

I awakened in the morning to find the banister to the second floor stairs torn out of the wall. Flakes of white plaster and dust were scattered on the carpet. I tried to pretend none of this had happened just like I tried to pretend I was asleep when my father, so wildly furious, burst into my bedroom late the night before. The best defense against my father’s anger was to turn away from the obvious evidence.

It had been a school night, but my parents agreed it was okay for me to go out on my first real date. We were 13 and she was the girl I was sure I would marry. Jane had deep-set blue eyes, shoulder-length brown hair, and the stance of a dancer. Her feet seemed to always be turned out as if she were about to perform a plié. We had tickets to see Three Dog Night and Alice Cooper at Three Rivers Stadium under the late spring stars.

After the second encore – Three Dog Night’s version of Neil Young’s The Loner – and the lights came up, Jane and I headed for the exit, creeping along in the mob of fans. We walked over the yellow steel bridge to Pittsburgh’s Point Park where the blue light of the street lamps illuminated the bridge’s sidewalk. On the other side, near the Hilton Hotel next to the park’s eastside entrance, Jane’s father was waiting in his running Pontiac.

“Is that your Dad?” I said.

“Yeah, he’ll give us a ride,” Jane said.

I thought she and I had agreed that it would be my father who would drive us home. I was sure Dad was likely somewhere nearby or on his way, expecting us to be looking for him. But I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t bother to tell her that I should somehow let my father know we weren’t going to need his ride. I didn’t dare admit a mix-up or misunderstanding and I said nothing about it all the way home.

Her father pulled his car up near the blacktop driveway of my house at a few minutes past midnight. A nearby streetlight glowed like a full moon, casting the car’s shadow onto the stone wall that separated the lawn from the front walkway. It was just minutes before midnight. I was too timid to try to give Jane a kiss, especially with her father in the car with us. Instead, I awkwardly said thanks, waved goodbye, and immediately began to look for Dad’s car. It was not in the driveway and not parked on the street. I peered through the garage door window. No car.

If Dad were in the house, he and my mother were apparently asleep, but the porch light at the top of the outside front steps had been left on. I tried to ease my way into the house, opening then slowly closing the creaking storm door. I climbed the dark stairway, shut the door to my bedroom, hurriedly took off my clothes, and slid under the bed covers.

That’s when the front door slammed. I could hear heavy feet pound on the stairway, quickening with each step. And then, the bedroom door exploded open.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” yelled my father in a throaty crackle.

The light in the hallway broke into the darkness of my room not like a candle but like a searchlight.

“David. Jesus Christ!” Dad said, standing just inside the doorway.

I pulled the bedspread up over my face, revealing only my closed eyes. Dad grabbed it and yanked it off me.

“How the hell did you get home?”

I acted as if I had been shaken from a dead sleep. But Dad knew I was faking it. He had marched all the way into the room and was now standing beside my bed with his arms folded across his chest, hovering next to me like a policeman questioning a suspect.

“I drove all the way downtown, all over the goddamn city looking for you for over an hour, and you’re in goddamn bed?” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

The hall light illuminated just one side of Dad’s face, giving it a shadowy look.

“Well, Jane’s dad was there and he…”

“Jesus Christ,” he said again. “Jezzzsus Chrrrrist!” Dad quickly looked me up and down, shook his head and stamped out of the room, the door rattling shut behind him. That’s when I heard a series of sudden, sharp noises – a snap, a crack, and then a thud. “Goddamn it!” he said, the force of his voice permeating the wall. I pulled the covers back over me and tightly shut my eyes.

The next morning I headed down the stairs for school, cautiously stepping over and around the debris. Pieces of plaster littered on the stairway, there were cracks and holes where the handrail had been attached to the wall, and the top section of the rail lay on the steps, long screws hanging from the bent wall brackets. Looking at all those broken pieces for longer than a second made me nauseous. I feared touching any of it, believing if I got too close, Dad’s explosive temper would somehow rise out of the wreckage and fill the air, forcing me to breath it in.

But when I returned home in the late afternoon the damage was gone. The handrail was reattached to the stairway, the carpet on the stairs was freshly vacuumed, and new plaster was drying where there had once been holes in the wall.

Dad never said another word about what happened. Neither did I.

Thirty-five years after that angry night, I found myself sitting in my car in the parking lot of an Olive Garden restaurant. What brought me there was a panic-driven phone call from my 16-year old son.

“Dad,” he said in a whispery voice. I could hear his hand rubbing against the phone, shielding the mouthpiece. “I don’t have enough money.”

Graham’s older brother had just graduated from high school and had been to all the big events - homecoming and the prom - and had somehow handled the inevitable awkwardness and mishaps of those early girl-boy experiences. He had navigated his way through holding hands, the kiss goodnight, and the self-conscious dance of paying for a night out with a girl. But on this summer night, it was Graham’s turn.

The girl was wearing an overly formal pink dress with ruffles around the waist and along the knee-length hem. There was glitter in her eye shadow and shiny crimson lipstick drawn unevenly on her mouth. She looked a like the youngest bridesmaid at a VFW wedding reception. Graham had heard that she loved Olive Garden, so that’s where he wanted to take her to celebrate her birthday.

“The bill is over fifty dollars,” he said.

“Over fifty! What the hell did you buy?” I asked, not expecting any sort of real answer.

“She ordered two appetizers, a salad, Fettuccini Alfredo, chocolate cake for dessert. She just kept eating.” He continued speaking in a soft voice, trying to keep from being overheard by anyone else in the restaurant’s public men’s room. “I told her I was going to the bathroom.”

“Okay, look,” I said. “I’ll come by and give you some more money. But it’s going to take a little time to get there. I’m nowhere near the restaurant.”

“Hurry,” Graham said.

I found myself thinking wondered about the Olive Garden menu - the regular two-for-one specials and something the restaurant chain calls its “Endless Salad Bowl.” This prompted a question.

“Graham, how the hell do you spend fifty bucks at Olive Garden?” I asked, picturing how his girl must have just kept calling for the waiter, pointing to items on the menu, and saying I’ll have this.

“I don’t know. She just kept knocking it down, Dad,” he said.

“Okay. I’ll call when I’m close. Tell her you have to go to the bathroom again and come outside. I’ll hand you some money. Don’t order anything else. You hear me?”

And so, I waited. My eyes fixed on the front door to the restaurant, watching families and couples exit and walk to their cars. There was a brief break in the patron traffic at the entranceway when Graham burst through the door, his eyes quickly scanning the parking lot. I honked horn and he ran to the car. I handed him a ten-dollar bill through the rolled down window.

“That enough?” I said.

“I think so,” Graham said, grabbing the money and beginning to run toward the restaurant door.

“Don’t forget the tip,” I said out the window.

Graham was halfway to the entrance when he turned and ran backwards so he could see me.

“How much?” he yelled, still back-peddling.

I stuck my head all the way out the window and hollered, “Whatever you have left!”

Graham disappeared through the doorway.

I leaned my neck against the driver’s side headrest and smiled. I thought about how Graham wanted this night to go well and how much he wanted to be grown-up. I thought about my own first date and my father’s violent reaction to the mix-up that night. And about what it must have been like for Dad to go out with a girl the very first time. I don’t know this for certain, have no way of being sure, but my father’s first date was probably with my mother. They grew up on the same street just a few houses from each other, but didn’t have much in common in those early days. He liked boxing. Fighters were his heroes. Sliding on big gloves and throwing punches was an escape from his family, falling apart from the sins of his father. She liked reading. Dickens was her hero. Devouring books was her getaway to places far from the Pennsylvania steel town street where she was born. But there must have been something that brought them together. His smile? Her eyes? They could have walked together to the local ice cream shop where all the teenagers hung out. They probably didn’t kiss, but they most certainly thought about it. And when she returned home I’m sure my mother’s father asked about Dad. How did he treat you? How did he behave? Did he use his manners? But it undoubtedly was quite a different story for my father. I’m confident his dad – a reticent and detached man - had no idea that his son was out on his first date. I’m sure he wasn’t concerned that my father had forgotten to tell him where he was going, how he was getting home, or what time that would be. And Dad’s father certainly wouldn’t have been willing or available to sneak his son a few extra pennies to pay for the miscalculated cost of a chocolate sundae.

Many years ago, my father’s father threw a stone in the water and the ripples continue to reverberate, creating little waves against the shores of my life. Dad’s memories and my own, our individual stories of being a father and a son, are part of an everlasting continuum that both shines in the open sun and hides in the darkness behind the moon. Some are buried in the ground, quieted by dirt and earth, and the inevitable silencer – time. But others radiate, like heat off ancestral pavement, linked by DNA, shaping my life and the lives of my sons in ways I may never fully understand.

When Graham and his girl came out through the restaurant door, the sun was painting a thin red line across the western horizon and the evening remained warm. It was the kind of balmy night that had me wishing for a convertible or a big front porch where I could sleep in a chaise lounge until morning. Graham was smiling and so was she, a good sign that the night had been rescued. This would be the memory I’d want to evoke for every one of the summers of my past, if I could only make it so.

Abby-Normal Memoir

2010-06-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

I was recently reading some thoughts about memoir writing from Abigail Thomas, the excellent memoirist who wrote A Three Dog Life. She writes about how she doesn't like things to be neatly put together, for stories to always make total sense. She doesn't particularly like chronology. Her life, she says, does not run in a line but rather is compiled of many "moments" scattered about.

As I work on my memoir about fatherhood, I am compelled to feel exactly the same. I see fatherhood as a series of moments, not a logical, narrative line or timeframe. Fatherhood and all the baggage - good and bad - it gives us to carry is defined by slices of time, not by a continuous, neatly packaged narrative.

That's why I like writing the pieces I have and continue to do for my memoir.

Now I just have to get an editor to agree with me!

Oh, one more thing - The Printers Row Lit Fest in Chicago was a great success. Thanks to all who came out to see me and show great interest in my book - ACCIDENTAL LESSONS. I am always greatly humbled and honored.

Printers Row Lit Fest

2010-06-08T14:35:00.000-07:00

This may be my favorite literary event in Chicago - Printers Row - and it's this coming weekend, June 12-13.

There is nothing better than browsing the booths, the events, the books, and being enveloped by readers and writers. If you have never been to Printers Row, take advantage of it this time. It's a vibrant, historical part of town - Printers Row/South Loop - and the season is right for reading, writing, and some patio dining and drinking - which is in abundance in the South Loop these days.

I'll be at the Chicago Writers Association booth signing copies of Accidental Lessons, noon-2pm. Love to see you there.

Spreading the Word

2010-05-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that promoting your work, your book, or whatever you are marketing is far from the artistic process. I found this out quite vividly in New York recently at the Book Expo of America. This is a yearly massive event for booksellers; where authors and publishers try to convince the book stores, libraries, etc to take on their books and put them in their stores. It's also a place to schmooze with agents, publishers, and the like. Although I had a good experience there - a lot of interest in my memoir, Accidental Lessons - it still feels so removed from the writing life. And, it is.

I tell my students and people who come to The Writing Life workshops that writing and publishing are two different animals. You have to know a lot about both, but don't confuse the two. If you want to be a writer - write. If you want to be a writer who gets published - write. Writing is the constant, not publishing. Sure, we all want to share out work, get published, but writing is what we first fell in love with. Don't be so enamored by the sexy suitor - publishing - that you forget your first love - writing.

This is a big part of my The Writing Life workshops. Two more coming up in Chicago-area Border's stores (St. Charles and Naperville) in June. If you want to be a writer, come by. I would love to see you.

Oh, by the way, thank you Joseph-Beth Bookseller in Pittsburgh (Southside) for a nice workshop night this past Thursday!

Keep writing!
David

Writing and Publishing - Just Like Baseball

2010-04-25T07:53:00.000-07:00

It is the season, and yes, I am a hapless Cubs fan. Grew up a Pittsburgh Pirate lover, but when they began to become a very sorrowful team in the 1990s, I started to lose interest. Because I've lived in Chicago now for more than twenty years, the Cubs have become a favorite, and yes, have given me occasional hope. And despite the heartache, I still love the game - it's simplicity, the unique "no clock" element to it, and its heavy emphasis on statistics. No, it's not that I love math, but rather because I have begun to realize how much writing, or rather publishing, and baseball statistics have in common.

The biggest similarity - getting published is like getting hits. You strike out, fly out, ground out and walk far more often than you get you get that stand-up double off the right field ivy. So, if your batting average in baseball is, say, .250, that's pretty darn respectable. Translate that into the craft and art of writing and publishing - if you write and try to publish and a fourth of the material you submit is being published in journals, magazines, online literary sites, etc., well, that's pretty darn respectable.

Not even the best writers in the world, the most celebrated or accomplished, get EVERYTHING they send out published. Now, mind you, if they are accomplished they have a better shot at it, certainly, but most of us are not on the popularity or celebrity level of a Stephen King, right? We are just writers, toiling along, trying to tell the best stories we know. And if we get something published, we should celebrate it heartily...like a bloop single over the shortstop's head.

David W. Berner

Writing is the Constant

2010-03-27T12:26:00.001-07:00

Great night at the Penguin Bookshop in Pittsburgh this week. Great group of people with - what I love - a wonderful drive to write! There were even a couple young people there - one I believe was eleven - with a desire to create and share their work. So nice to see.

In May I'll be back in the Pittsburgh area for another THE WRITING LIFE workshop. This one is scheduled for May 27th at the Joseph-Beth Booksellers store in Pittsburgh's Southside neighborhood.

After holding these workshops, I always wonder about what many of these people take with them. The realities of publishing are hard to swallow sometimes. It's a tough road. But I hope that I can inspire people to see that the only constant is the work - the writing itself, not the publishing. Publishing, even for the stars of the industry, isn't always a guarantee. Even the best, most popular, still receive rejection letters. In any creative endeavor, remember that the work - the art itself - is the most important. The book that gets published, the art that is hung, the photograph that is framed and sold will come if we are devoted to the craft, the art, the work. Cliche? Maybe. Idealistic? Probably. But it is what drives the artist. Let this drive you.

David

Search to Create

2010-03-17T06:05:00.000-07:00

My radio documentary class is honing in on their final project ideas. It's such a struggle to find that perfect idea, to find that story worth telling. This is one of the hardest parts of the process, I agree. But you must, MUST, step out of your comfort zone. Look at the world around you, be aware. Step away from your Facebook page, your music, your apartment, and open your eyes to everything. Look at posters on the telephone polls, read the smallest story in the most obscure newspaper, read the blogs of unusual websites. Look, search, explore.

Yes, art is in the stuff right in front of us. But sometimes we need to step away to see it. Step away.

Also - FYI - I'll be holding a writing workshop, reading/signing at Penguin Bookshop in Pittsburgh on March 25th 7-8pm. Great independent book store in the Sewickley neighborhood.

Penguin Bookshop

New Things

2010-03-02T07:19:00.000-08:00

Getting close to finishing the father stories book. I wrote a final piece, the one I want at the end of the book. It's entitled Ghost Boxing. As soon as I finished it, I realized that was the better title of the book. It'll make sense when you read it, I think. I hope.

In March I'm expected in Pittsburgh to present a workshop at a great book store - Penguin Bookshop in Sewickley. We are leaning toward a workshop in how best to get published, and then a reading of Accidental Lessons and some new work. I'll also be at the Joseph-Beth Booksellers on the city's Southside neighborhood in late May, and then the New York Book Expo the last week of May, also.

I was thinking the other day after reading an interview of a friend - author Thomas E. Kennedy - in The Writer's Chronicle about where we write, where art is produced. Tom writes long hand, sits in a special spot in his home in Copenhagen. But he also says he writes "anywhere." And he does, I've seen him pull scraps of paper out of his pockets to write notes on - pieces of overheard conversations, observations. That's a good habit to get in, by the way. I do it too. But I keep notes in my moleskin notebooks. But the real thing here is where do we work? Where do writers, songwriters, painters, thinkers work? I find myself changing venues all the time...coffee shops, my college office, my home office, my leather chair in the living room, I've even written in cars on road trips...someone else driving, of course. I need that switch-a-roo. I can't write in the same place all the time. There's something about the change of venue.

I have a sabbatical coming up in 2011 and I'm thinking about heading for some "writer retreats" to work - cabins in the woods, oceanfront cottages, distant coffee shops. But it's not about inspriation, I find that all over, thankfully. It's more about that venue, that perfect place. But then again, I'll likely be there a couple hours and ache to move somewhere else.

Change is good for creative work. Change is marvelous.

Best to all of you.

David B

He's Back!

2010-02-23T17:06:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile.

I've been working hard on my new memoir manuscript, contemplating what the hell I'm writing in this new novel (it's a tougher go than the memoir work) and reading, a lot. Read a new book entitled A Common Pornography, by Kevin Sampsell, that I absolutely loved. Uniquely told story about a boy, a young man, and a father's legacy. It's disturbing, troubling, and at the same time, funny and heartwarming. Well, maybe "heartwarming" is not the right word. Either way, it's worthy of notice.

Also just picked up Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, translated by Anne Born. I have not heard a bad thing about this book - friends, reviews, colleagues all say it is stunning. So - I read...

I'll let you know.

This Friday I'll be presenting at a teacher's workshop about creative writing and audio, pulling the two together to help create the best writing from students. And that reminds me, I've got some new work to do on that. It's a incredible thing to see the work of students come alive, off the paper, in audio work; them reading their works and editing in music and sound. It is an extension of the creative writing process that can be invigorating and liberating. I'll let you know how it goes.

Last entry I asked for some help with naming my next manuscript - of course editors and publishers have a say in this, and what we work out together could be nixed in the first edits - but - keep sending out ideas, I would greatly appreciate it.

Hope all is well, keeping writing, reading, creating.

Best,
David

Help Me Title My Book

2010-01-27T11:00:00.000-08:00

I am continuing to work on the final pieces for a book I have tentatively called "The Color and the Noise" - that's the title of one chapter (piece/essay) in the book about fatherhood, dealing with the sins of the father, and finding your place as a dad, even if you have no idea what you are doing, or why you are feeling or acting the way you do with your own kids. You can read about it on my website - www.davidwberner.com

That particular piece is about my younger son's struggle in school, with family and friends, and yet his absolute LOVE of metal music and how that mad music may have been one of the best things for him.

But the overall theme of the book is about overcoming and reacting internally, even viscerally, to the sins of the father, the biblical belief that we all have to atone, live through, deal with, the bad things our father's, family's have done. In this story, it's the sins of my grandfather I focus on and how my dad dealt with his father leaving the family for a woman who lived down the street; how that event changed my dad, effected him, but also effected me as a father, two generations later. The book is structured to be a series of pieces - essays, stories, snippets - whatever you want to call them - that come together to tell this larger story.

So - the title.

The Color and the Noise
Living with What the Dead Did
Watching the Past
Boxing with Ghosts (there's a significant piece in the collection about how boxing helped my Dad overcome a lot of emotion.)
Punching Air

Just some thoughts. Yours? What do you think, with the limited knowledge you have of the book?

Second -
I've begun a novel, BARELY begun a novel.
The premise: A man goes on an ill conceived, even reckless journey with a friend to find the boy he gave up for adoption with his college girlfriend many years ago. The trip takes him on a journey he never expected with revelations he never would have imagined. Essentially, it's a road trip story, with a twist.

Titles?

Third Man Road (The "third man" concept is about having a guardian angel that gets you through anything.)
Turn Left When You Laugh
Turn Left When You Cry
Driving Naked
Driving Fast and Naked
Driving with Eyes Closed
Roads with Angels
Driving with Angels

Again, you haven't read the work, but - what do you think of the titles as they stand alone? What evokes an emotion, and what is it?

I would love your thoughts. Think of it as communal titling. :)

David B

Great Read

2010-01-24T16:34:00.000-08:00

Just picked up a new release - A Common Pornography by Kevin Sempsell. Such an interesting approach to storytelling - little remembrances, snippets of time and place. I know it's cliche to say - but - I can't put it down. I love when good stories are told in new ways. Just like The Beatles or Dylan told their new stories in new ways. Kevin, sorry, I don't mean to link you with Lennon-McCartney or Dylan - but, I think you get the point.

Dave B

For Kerouac Fans

2010-01-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me - students, friends, family - can't miss that I am a Jack Kerouac fan. And no, my favorite is not On the Road. My favorite is The Dharma Bums. But, either way, I think Kerouac - minus the cliches about him and his work - was one of those lightning bolts in literature, art, pop culture that comes only a few times in a century. On the 50th anniversary of the publication of On the Road, I released a personal audio documentary of a Kerouac-like trip I made with a friend - my Dean Moriarty - across the American west. It was broadcast on public radio stations across the country. And recently, at the college where I teach - Columbia College Chicago - I was privileged to be involved in the campus-wide celebration of Kerouac when his original On the Road manuscript was exhibited at the school.

And now, even more great Kerouac stuff.

There's a new CD and documentary film just released called - One Fast Move or I'm Gone: Kerouac's Big Sur. it is a marvelous collection of Kerouac images and stories, but most importantly it is a collection of new musical works from the indie artists Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie and Jay Farrar of Son Volt. Big Sur was a post-On the Road work that really is a downer. It focuses on Kerouac's terrible descent into alcoholism and his attempt to dry-up while spending time alone in a cabin owned by Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti in California's Big Sur. The book is wonderful, but depressing. The music in this collection - yes, a bit EMO - but in many respects absolutely beautiful. In a way, it captures Kerouac's Big Sur - a novel dealing with the depths of human despair, but also engaging glimmers of hope. Sure - maybe a CD collection based around Kerouac's The Dharma Bums might have been better. (On the Road would have been too much of a cliche, don't you think?) but still, the music is worth a listen, even if you are are not a Kerouac fan.

Dave B

Ode to the Guitar

2010-01-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

I've been playing guitar - with varying degrees of intensity - for decades. Played in a band in my 20s, performed at coffeehouses with my acoustic, and lately have enjoyed quite moments late at night to soothe all. My 30-year old six sting, battered as it may be, still sounds wonderful. Clear, clean, and resonate.

A few nights ago, I hooked up with a friend, someone who loves music, loves Jazz, loves guitars, owns several, including a marvelous Martin acoustic. I played it for hours, finger-picking my way around every song I could remember. The music, mixed with good wine, a good woman, good friends, and the warmth of firewood was nearly as perfect as it gets.

I need to play more.

David B

No Idea Why

2010-01-08T10:15:00.000-08:00

I've been stymied lately. Couldn't get the good writing mojo going. I was stuck and uninspired, and every time I would try to sit down and write, it was simply awful. My goal has been to complete - at least first drafts - of all the pieces I have in mind for a collection of father stories. All personal stories, memoir, to be gathered into a book that tells the story of how a grandfather's guilt carried its way through my father to me, and how I'm, as a father, trying to make up for a grandfather's misguided decisions, how we all are living the sins of our fathers.

Finally, I've made progress.

In the last couple days, for whatever reason, the writing juices are flowing again. The words are forming, the sentences are connecting, the insight is emerging.

My question is this: Why does this happen? Why does the muse come and go? What dampens it; what sparks it? In Greek mythology, the muse means a "guiding spirit" or a "source of inspiration." But isn't this spirit, this inspiration, always there? Doesn't it just have to be uncovered, revealed? So, what keeps it hidden?

I realize these are questions of a thousand poets, the dreams of artists everywhere. But still, that doesn't mean I can't ask the question - over and over and over again.

David B

Reading on the iPhone

2010-01-02T05:44:00.000-08:00

Never thought I would say this - I love my iPhone Kindle application!

I am a lover of books, holding them, smelling them, hearing the sweet crack of a book's binding opened for the first time. I love old books, new books, all books. I have shelves of them.

But, I downloaded a book - A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore - through AmazonKindle onto my iPhone and found the reading highly enjoyable, accessible, and down-right cool. The book is a wonderful read, that is a given here, but the screen on the iPhone for reading is far better than I expected.

Just for kicks, I downloaded my own book, Accidental Lessons, to see what it would be like to read on the iPhone Kindle. And, honestly, I love it.

Never thought is would say this - I'm thinking about downloading more books to my iPhone. And no, I'm NOT getting paid for this!

Best,
David W. Berner

Literary Discovery

2009-12-30T11:02:00.000-08:00

I have been a regular listener to the weekly podcast from the NY Times Book Review. And I've always thought it timely, interesting, and full of the latest publishing news. But I've recently discovered Word for Word from American Public Media. It's a great podcast for writers. Writers talk about their work, read their work, give invaluable insight. The shows run about an hour, so they take a bit of pod space and take time to download sometimes, but they are worth it.

As usual, you can find the podcasts on iTunes.

Writing and Listening,
David W. Berner

A New Year's Goal

2009-12-27T16:51:00.000-08:00

I never liked resolutions for the New Year. The process always felt forced or ritualistic instead of real. Truly, why not make a resolution at ANY TIME OF THE YEAR?

But, given the tradition and the element of obligation the New Year brings, maybe a little literary goal, a literary resolution wouldn't be a bad thing.

Five literary goals for 2010...

1. Read more. I always read a bunch, but the more your read the better you know your craft and the better you write.
2. Write more. I can always write more, absolutely. And "finding the time" goes right along with this goal. It's part of the package.
3. Go Deeper. I have always asked my students to "go deep" when working on their writing, especially nonfiction or memoir or personal essay work. But I want to go deeper, explore harder, uncover bigger boulders.
4. Submit more. I have always submitted my work, but I need to be more focused on submitting to journals and literary magazines.
5. Listen more to my heart. I have always done this, maybe to my detriment, but I believe the more I listen for what's in my heart, the more true my writing will be.

Use mine, write your own, but either way - think about some resolutions that make sense for your work. Or, simply, your life.

Happy New Year!
David W. Berner

Gift for the Holidays

2009-12-17T07:26:00.000-08:00

I asked a friend the other day for a holiday gift suggestion for her daughter. I had already considered getting her a book, and sure enough, my friend said, "A book would be a good idea."

Note to self - Go with your gut.

I have found, over and over again, that giving a book as a gift is about the best present one can offer. Even if the recipient is not what you might consider a "reader." I have found that when I give a book, even to someone who is not what many of would consider a bookworm, I am rewarded by the response. And the recipient almost always reads the book! Many times they say to me, "You know, I don't read much, but..." Yep, they read it, liked it, and enjoyed the process.

The key of course is matching the right book with that non-reader. The subject matter must somehow resonate. But, if you take care in the choice, you'll get your rewards.

Buy a book, give a book this holiday.

Oh, yes. Don't forget to sign it inside - a personal note about how you selected this title or why you believe the book is perfect for them. That little touch says a lot.

Happy book buying!

Working in Audio

2009-12-15T13:56:00.000-08:00

If you are a writer, and not trying to record your works, reading your work aloud, you are missing an opportunity. When I teach writing at Columbia College Chicago, it is mostly for radio work, audio. I always ask the students to read their narratives, their essays, commercials, public service announcements out loud. It's imperative for radio work, of course. But it's also a wonderful process for any kind of writing.

Reading your work aloud helps you to "hear" the rhythms, the pace and flow of the writing - all key elements for good writing, no matter the delivery system - radio, magazines, journals, books. It also helps you "hear" what is working or not, to "hear" the music of the language. Try it. You will see what I mean.

Plus, working on reading your works out loud helps you be a better presenter of your work at readings, presentations, seminars. And it gives you another creative dimension. You also don't need to work in a recording studio to do this. GarageBand on an Apple commuter makes it very easy to record your work. Purchase a decent microphone, plug it in, and get started. If you are recording at home, throw a blanket over you head when you read. This will give a "warmth" to the sound, as if you were working in a sound-proof studio. It's a neat little trick.

And don't worry if you don't have a traditional "radio voice" - YOUR voice is the best for your work. Read and interpret, give the words life, lift them off the page. And have fun, it will show in the read.

Try recording your work, try it and then do it often. It will help create better stories. I promise.

Revelations Deeper Than Ever

2009-12-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

I mostly write creative nonfiction, and mostly memoir. The "I" word shows up a lot in my writing. I've written before about how memoir can be a frightening place to go. For memoir to be successful, it has to be honest and requires the writer to go deep into the narrator's soul. The narrator, of course, is the author. Personal stories take a lot of guts.

The other night a friend offered a suggestion to me about my recent writing on fatherhood. I'm working on a collection of fatherhood stories, all personal. The suggestion was one so deep and profound, it nearly knocked me over. The friend had observed something in my writing, related to my connection to my father and grandfather, linking directly to how I relate to my two sons. I won't go into all of it here, but it was incredibly intuitive, perceptive. I must now find a way to work this into the focus of a story. It's now a goal.

The point is this: no good writing of personal experience always requires uncomfortable moments. The writer has to squirm a bit to be sure the writing is touching the nerve centers. And when it touches the nerve centers of the writer, it surely will touch the nerve centers of the reader. And that is what any author wants - to resonate with the reader.

This is not to say all writing has to be profound, sad, close-to-the bone, but it must come from somewhere deep in the heart, the head, or the soul. Even if it takes someone else to point that out.

To Nobel or Not to Nobel

2009-12-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

I get a kick out of people who say President Obama shouldn't be getting the Nobel Peace Prize, as if he should have skippped the ceremony and told the Nobel committee to give it to the runner-up. He wasn't about to do that, of course. And his words at the ceremony today were remarkable. He linked the Afghanistan surge to peace, he was humble and honored, and I am proud to have a President who is thought of that highly in the international community.

You can debate whether he "deserved" the prize, or whether it came too prematurely. But, consider this - the United States has a much better reputation in the world than just a few years ago, and our foreign policy is now less about cowboys and indians, and more about diplomacy, talking, and yes, peace. The worth of transformation is evident now and will be, even more profoundly, years from now.

Holiday Gifts

2009-12-08T09:59:00.001-08:00

I was out shopping for holiday gifts the other night. Yes, actually going into stores and not clicking through websites. Although, I must admit, most of my shopping this year has been online.
Still - I couldn't help myself be reminded how wonderful a bookstore is at this time of year and what treasures are there for great holiday gifts.

I have a three suggestions this year for super reads...

The Farther Shore by Matthew Eck. A beautiful, haunting war story. It's taut and elegantly written.
The Night in Question: Stories by Tobias Wolfe. He is one of the best short stories writers working today. Absolutely marvelous material.
Riding the Dog: A Look Back at America by Thomas E. Kennedy. Great personal essays filled with incredible insight.

Enjoy.

Any other ideas? Good books on your list?

David B

Welcome

2009-12-01T08:10:00.000-08:00

Hello all.

This is the beginning of this writer's new venture - a regular author's blog. And your chance to respond, comment, question, and write! Certainly, I would love to hear from those who have read my book - Accidental Lessons - or have read or heard my other works. But I'm also interested in you and your stories. A true blog should be a conversation and that is why you are so welcomed into this process.

I will be writing regular updates, but the blog doesn't resonate or engage unless you take part. I encourage you to write a few words about the creative process, writing, teaching, football, music, love, hate, war, poverty, health care - anything that strikes you, because all of it is part of the human condition, and all of it is worthy of a story. We all have stories to tell - little ones, big ones, medium-sized ones - and they are all welcome here. In fact, I would encourage telling your stories and sharing your writing. Writing is a wonderful art, but we need readers to make it work, right?

Thanks for contributing!

Best,

David W. Berner